


why we're scared of the dark

by audkyrie



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Body Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Not Canon Compliant - Kingdom Hearts III, POV Second Person, romance ... with extraterrestrial gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-05-31 11:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audkyrie/pseuds/audkyrie
Summary: Sora needs some help, which leads to an old conversation and an old transformation within his heart.





	why we're scared of the dark

So this is the way it happens —

Void Gear is embedded into the glass. Out-of-reach, so far out of bounds that he doesn't attempt to grab it.

You feel winded, sore; vaguely aware of the purple-yellow bruises that are starting to line up on your wispy forearms. The collar of his red-and-black bodysuit is coiled into your fist, as you’re lifting him slightly up off the ground. He’s at your mercy. He’s beneath your hands. He’s desperately clawing at your bare wrists.

In between the throes, bouts of gasps, he grunts, “Let me _go_.” His voice is shaky, albeit guttural. You get the impression that the blackout helmet isn’t doing him any favors. During the fight you had initially tried to smash it inward, but managed to only hurt yourself in the process.

He’s pathetic. Squirming, flailing his limbs about. Nonetheless, the stranger remains pinned underneath your hands and therefore your keyblade and there isn’t anything he can do. Besides continuing to weakly struggle, obviously.

When he kicks out, you… you soon straddle him, and he coughs; choking too, as the glinting teeth of your weapon realign against his jugular. Fittingly, for each indent lines up against the jut of a bone.

It’s entirely muscle memory. Your hands won’t stay still long enough to adjust otherwise.

Somewhat unintentionally, you dig your nails into the small sliver of exposed skin between his helmet and his neck. He flushes a delightful pink. What color are his insides, anyway?

Inexplicably, an ignition. Nearby, _very_ close by, and you can feel the trailing heat lap at your face. A square-foot of the pillar erupts into flames and it isn’t from you. Truthfully, you don’t currently have the mana to cast any sort of spell; the scuffle had drained the two of you fairly well. You snarl directly in his face, practically daring him to do it again. Although, his helmet keeps you from doing much else.

You think, and you lean inward; you can't see his reaction, but he seems to flinch. Upon you breathing directly onto his neck, he spasms with a groan. 

Where did he come from - why is he here - how many people are imprisoned here, right now? Unaware of your questioning, his struggles begin anew. 

“Get, off! _Sora_!”

Admittedly - a well-aimed jab at your stomach is a good enough jostle. In the split-second you stutter backwards, he frees himself from your confines. Or, rather, pushes you further away. No magic, no energy, simply shoving you off.

You make an effort to crawl back towards him, in order to give him a piece of your mind, but you’re unable to. Not for lack of trying, though.

It’s jarring. Your lip splits into twine. Perhaps your keen fangs are at fault; you haven’t been paying attention, so it wouldn’t exactly be surprising if you have been absentmindedly chewing on the flesh throughout.

However long it feels, it must take a split-second. You regard your reflection - and it triggers a keen body dysmorphia. Rather than a sickly vibrant red, the wound bleeds a kind of see-through white. It dribbles down your chin and quietly pitter-patters onto the floor.

 _Ectoplasm_ , Vanitas had called it once. This is the liquid-like internals of something inhuman - a ghost - a monster. A once-slumbering infestation inches in the space between your bunched-up intestines. Tendrils are rising from your forearms. There's a fog internal and external to the glass artwork, and you recognize it as the wisps from earlier. It's fairly faint, like smoke.

This is a looking-glass. A mirror.

Do you actually look like that right now?

One gut-wrenching dry-heave later, your arms and limbs and eyes roll further within their sockets. It's an effort to reopen your eyes; must be wide-eyed, bug-eyed. There's nothing to spill. Nothing inside, and the feeble attempts to spew whatever is contaminating you falter.

Soon enough you heave; your spine ruptures and a creepy-crawling sensation spreads out of your back. 

“Sora-!” Vanitas scrambles to your side. “Shit, Sora. Look at me.” The mask abruptly slips, and you can see a line of translucent blood running from his mouth. Guilt erupts in your stomach and it expands within seconds because _you did that_.

Huh.

Are you spiraling? But when you isolate it to just the sensation, it's akin to free-falling. Catastrophizing, that could be the term. You've had conversations about this; what to do when you 'get like this,' or other such cotangents. All of them escape you. 

When the two of you are close enough, your face is promptly cupped within his hands. He ignores your impulsive sneering. Strangely, with an air of paper-thin patience, Vanitas thumbs away the splutter from your lip. The ooze still bubbles from the splint, but what is Vanitas going to do? Kiss it better?

“Where are you, Sora,” he murmurs.

 _Here_ , you want to jeer. _Right in front of you_. Vanitas rubs circles into the cut flesh. It's reassuring, but he uses that to his advantage. Just before you lower your guard, he eases a barely sharp nail inside of the cut.

Feebly, you kick at his leg. He laughs, high-pitched, a distorted mimicry of your own. “Come on. My name is Vanitas — and I am the only thing keeping you alive.”

You glance at him. All of Vanitas’ edges are softened. In the darkness Vanitas’ eyes are a pale, gold glimmer but he isn’t looking at you in terror or fear. Nor is he glaring at you. In the half-light, the trickle of blood doesn’t contrast against him so obviously anymore. His nail leaves, re-opening the gap of your bleeding lip. Now his hand is white, splattered with the ectoplasm; he regards his hand with a disgusted expression and quietly smears the blood onto his scuffed shoe. 

“V-Vani.”

“So now you remember me?” He snorts, fond. “Huh, it finally pierced that thick skull of yours? Took you long enough.”

Neither of you are very touchy people. By large, he gives you your space and thensome. Yet it’s cold - so _so_ cold - the kindle for the flame has died, cast aside when it looked like you were in danger. Nothing about you will still; your hands are shaking and you’re quivering against Vanitas. Needles are embedded inside of you, razor thin and razor sharp.

It hurts. You’re empty. Breathing makes you ache, because you’re hollow. This isn’t the first time this has happened, has it?

“There you are.” Vanitas’ thumb moves. His movements are slow, in order to caress your cheek. “Hey. Munny for your thoughts.”

“Hurts. I’m in pain."

He hums. Nearly amused, but it’s flat. Quite frankly, he doesn’t have the heart. “Yeah. Y'know, that’ll happen when you overextend yourself in an all-out attack.”

“ _Vanitas_ ,” and you don’t mean to, but you hiss. Your tongue swipes over the points of your teeth. Both of you wince.

Truthfully? There isn't a chance in hell that you'd tell him, but. You kind of wish he’d bring you into his arms, but your form isn’t exactly - solid, or easy to touch right now. Dark spikes are rising and falling from your goosebumps, and a handful of them are mobile. They repeatedly reach for Vanitas; Vanitas silently moves out of their way and the vines soon shrink back to themselves. Meekly, you might add; pointing out that they are a fabrication of your emotions and desires would be embarrassing, though.

"I'd say that you got hurt pretty bad," Vanitas says, delicately pointing out the obvious. He leans in, and immediately regrets sniffing at the flayed bits of your shoulder. "Eugh." It does smell putrid, you'll give him that. 

He slides his hand down your neck. Similar to where you had him pinned, via the Kingdom Key. "Someone's making out to have a death wish. Tell me, Sora, how much longer do you have? Are you seriously going to keep doing this?"

You smile. Some of the pus leaks out of your lip. "I'll do it, as many times as it takes."

"Heh." Exactly what he thought, then. "Then let me take over."

 _..._ yeah right. Very eyebrow raising, for Vanitas to say such a thing. He pouts, pretending the rejection hurts. "What? It's not like you've done anything by yourself."

"- I don't think that's true."

"Did you not hear? After all, that's what your Princess said. You're useless on your own. Without us, you wouldn't be able to wield the keyblade."

Birds inside of a birdcage. The keyblade didn't choose you. It was an inheritance, a bypass of trapping Ventus and Vanitas within your heart. Nevertheless it's an enraging statement - and Vanitas hasn't stopped, either. 

"There's the play hero. Sora, who always needs someone else's help."

"I don't need anyone's help," _least of all yours._ Vanitas' hand tightens on your neck, squeezing it by his index and middle fingers. You don't shove him away and there's no breath to constrict. "Vanitas-" 

"Sora," he sing-songs. "Just let go already."

He doesn't mean that. Not letting go entirely. Instead, you relax your grip on the tether. A cable that's red and slick upwards and pointed downwards. It's a link that goes both ways, slithered around the deepest and darkest edge of your heart's pillar and extends to the last building in the sky. Releasing the barbed wire completely will electrify and dry you of blood, but softening allows the tension to wither away.

"Sora. Let go."

Your fist uncoils.

"That's it. It's easier not to pick up the pieces. What makes up a whole, anyway?" His left hand latches onto yours, and Vanitas climbs his way to the surface. Warmth radiates from your make-believe heart, because it isn't beating by itself. In Vanitas' arm the Kingdom Key is raised high - there's the distinct sound of the looking-glass shattering. Folding within itself, debris glinting on the descend.

On the outside, you're becoming the monster with shadowy tendrils and orange eyes. 

Your hands are encased in the darkness and you watch, fascinated, as the nails sharpen themselves to claws. 

**Author's Note:**

> [this was a commission for xi, tzavine on twitter.](https://twitter.com/tzavine) the prompt was: _how do u feel about a romanticized descent into rage form? of like, the "ill take care of this, let me" conversation before vanitas takes over and wrecks shop?_


End file.
